


A Study in Touch

by Rionam



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9640001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rionam/pseuds/Rionam
Summary: “It does sound like something Mycroft would be all for. You, under 24-hour house arrest."John felt for Sherlock, he really did, as the man was forced into a plastic ankle cuff. He also felt for himself, as he was the one that was going to have to put up with him being trapped in 221B twenty-four hours a day.Sherlock and John have to find ways to entertain themselves when Sherlock is put under house arrest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock and John are forced to confront their feelings for one another when they have literally no other distractions. Lovely.

“What is this? John. What the hell does this mean?”

 

A pause. A sigh.

 

“Sherlock. You know exactly what this means.”

 

John and Sherlock were standing in a bland, grey room in a police station, staring at the plastic ankle monitor in a police officer’s hands. Sherlock was horrified, his face twisted somewhere between petulance and disgust. John seemed to be struggling between amusement at the situation and frustration over what it really meant.

 

“Of course I know what it means,” Sherlock hissed, “But I didn’t think I’d actually have to go through with this complete farce.”

 

The police officer was unimpressed by Sherlock’s lack of willing to comply, “This is an ankle monitor, more commonly known as a ‘tag’. It means that under court mandated law you are required to stay under house arrest for any time up to two years, until the judge is satisfied with your good behaviour.”

 

Sherlock glared wildly at John, as if to tell him to do something about this.

 

“You have to do what he says, you broke the law,” John told him, rubbing a hand across his face.

 

Sherlock screwed up his face, “I thought Mycroft would get me out of this.”

 

The police officer’s face lit up at Mycroft’s name, “Your brother was all for this method of detainment. He insisted we give you the full sentence, for what really was a minor case of criminal damage.”

 

“It does sound like something Mycroft would be all for. You, under 24-hour house arrest,” John added, almost smirking. But then he imagined what the next two years would be like with Sherlock stuck in the flat and sobered up.

 

“Criminal damage,” Sherlock mocked, becoming more agitated, “I barely did anything to that place.”

 

“You smashed up an entire shop front.” John reminded him.

 

“I solved the case.”

 

“You destroyed someone’s business.”

 

Sherlock sighed loudly and dramatically, “I’m sure Mycroft has paid for all the repairs already.”

 

“I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, but it doesn’t matter. This is what the judge has ordered and if you don’t comply, I will have to arrest you and you’ll serve your time in prison,” The police officer told him firmly, using a tool to unlock the plastic cuff.

 

Sherlock visibly paled at this. He looked to John for help, pleading with his pale eyes, “Please. I can’t go to prison; I can’t be under house arrest. The cases, John, the work!”

 

“I’m sorry Sherlock, there’s nothing I can do.”

 

John felt for Sherlock, he really did, as the man was forced into a plastic ankle cuff. He also felt for himself, as he was the one that was going to have to put up with him being trapped in 221B twenty-four hours a day. He knew that within two days he will be driven mad, Sherlock was bad enough when he didn’t have a case to satisfy himself. How was he going to cope with only being able to solve things from his living room?

 

It would be worse for the posh git in prison, though. He imagined there would be more than a few inmates who were only there because of Sherlock Holmes, and John knew what they did to good looking, rich inmates in prison… Thinking about that bothered John more than he cared to admit. Plus, John didn’t really want the only way he could see his best mate to be in a prison visitation room.

 

.

 

The drive back to 221B in the back of a police car was tense to say the least. Sherlock was riled up because Anderson, Donovan and a host of other amused police officers had lined up to take pictures of him with his new ‘accessory’ on his way out. He deduced two affairs and one case of corruption in passing, but none of this stopped the laughter and jeering as he got into the back of the car.

 

In the ten-minute drive, Sherlock also managed to correctly deduce the age, gender and crime of every prisoner who had been in the back of this particular police car in the past week. It was as if his brain was going into overdrive, making the most of the last change of scenery he would be in for up to two years. The words just kept spouting from his mouth in bursts and John just let it happen, allowing the words to wash over him into some kind of trance as he figured out what to do next.

 

Somehow he would have to keep Sherlock entertained from the confines of the flat, for if Sherlock went stir crazy then that in turn would send him round the loop. He considered daytime telly, refreshing their book collection, suggesting new experiments... He’d even put himself forward as a test subject if it stopped Sherlock resorting to shooting the wall again.

 

The police officer that neither of them ever asked the name of dropped John and Sherlock off at their flat with a wry smile. It was a smile that so obviously said, _good luck with that._

 

Sherlock immediately thundered up the stairs and slammed the door to the flat in John’s face. John raised an eyebrow and decided to go fill in Mrs Hudson on the day’s events, since she would now be putting up with this noise on a 24-hour basis.

 

When he returned upstairs Sherlock was still fully dressed, sitting stoically in his armchair and staring at something mundane on the television. John found himself to be quite clever when he decided the reason he hadn’t changed into his customary pyjamas-and-dressing-gown combo, was because he didn’t want to be faced with his offensive grey anklet. He hadn’t even removed his shoes.

 

“Feeling any better?” He asked in passing, knowing full well this comment would only serve to irritate the consulting detective further. He heard inane muttering coming from Sherlock’s direction but couldn’t make out much other than “ridiculous” and “not fair”. John muffled a snort into the fridge.

 

John noted how empty the fridge was, as he did, recalling how often he and Sherlock ate out whilst on cases. He was obviously going to have to brush up on his cooking skills or find a greater variety of takeaways, if they weren’t going to waste away in the next however many months it took for Mycroft to stop teasing his brother.

 

He walked back into the living room (wherein Sherlock still hadn’t moved a muscle) holding a takeaway menu and a can of beans, “Look it’s either kung-pow chicken or beans on toast tonight. We seriously lack nutritious food in this flat.”

 

Sherlock looked mournful, “I want to eat at Angelos.”

 

They hadn’t eaten at the Italian in months now, John declaring he felt uncomfortable to how Angelo still asked about their love life, despite him repeatedly letting him know they weren’t on dates. It was hard to dispute, really, since they went out for so many meals together, always alone and always with Sherlock paying.

 

Sherlock obviously just wanted what he couldn’t have. This was going to be a recurring theme, John realised.

 

“Well you’re going to have to get used to eating in the flat. We’ll see if Angelos will do delivery for us.”

 

Forty-five minutes later a steaming bag of pasta and pizza was hand delivered by Angelo himself, who insinuated something about what John and Sherlock could get up to under house arrest before leaving, grinning widely at the unimpressed pair. The food, as always, was amazing, and even the surly detective managed a few bites before flouncing off into his room.

 

Another thirty minutes went by and John began watching some crime drama, where the detective wasn’t as clever or as fantastic as Sherlock. He was unaware as to when he began comparing television detectives to his flatmate, but it was pretty much standard practice by now.

 

Sherlock finally appeared in the doorway again, dressed now in a beige dressing gown and grey pyjama pants. The pants were brand new as far as John could tell and trailed past Sherlock’s ankles, tugging on the floor as he stalked back into the living room. He collapsed onto the sofa with a huff.

 

“What would happen if I left the flat?”

 

Sherlock’s voice was impish, as if he was planning a daring escape in his bare feet and dressing gown.

 

“You would breach the terms of your house arrest and be arrested. They told us this at the station.”

 

“I wasn’t listening,” Sherlock retorted carelessly, curling his knees up to his chest. His bony hands skimmed the soft fabric of his pyjama pants, making sure they stayed firmly in places around his ankles.

 

John rolled his eyes fondly, “Of course you weren’t.”

 

Over the course of the next week John found himself bombarded with various theories and ideas over how Sherlock could escape this new prison they called a home. He paced the flat, barely sleeping, wracking his brain for any way he could possibly get away. Where to, John didn’t know. They barely left 221B except for cases anyway and Sherlock never slept anywhere other than in his own bed.

 

When he returned from Tesco late one afternoon, after running errands most of the day, he found Sherlock practically snarling as he glared out of the window.

 

“I said,” Sherlock spat, through gritted teeth, “What would happen if I cut the damned thing off?”

 

John raised an eyebrow, amused, “I’ve been out, Sherlock. You’re looking out of the bloody window, surely you would have seen me get out of a cab and come into the house.”

 

“I’ve been tracking the means of CCTV my brother is using to make sure I don’t go anywhere; CCTV is not often found at street level,” Sherlock explained, bite still very much present in his words.

 

John took this in his stride, though. Sherlock had been in this black mood ever since they had returned from the police station. He called out as he put away the groceries, “He’s probably bugged the flat, again.”

 

“Oh I know he has, I disabled those days ago,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “He has a flaw in that plan. He obviously knows I’ve crushed his silly cameras; but since I am sentenced to remain in this flat for the foreseeable future, he cannot come in and install more without me knowing.”

 

“Clever,” John complimented mindlessly, arranging items in the fridge around the delivery of toes Molly had sent over from Barts. “But he’ll know if you leave the flat, anyway. Wont he? Because of the-“

 

“Exactly, John,” Sherlock interrupted angrily. He stomped into the kitchen, “Which brings me back to my original point. What would happen if I cut the damned thing off?”

 

“You have the internet, you have every fact under the sun stored away in that head of yours,” John responded, trying very hard not to laugh at the irate look twisting Sherlock’s usually handsome features. He gave in, “The police would be notified and you would either be cautioned and re-tagged, or arrested. Depending on how much you’d pissed off the officer who came for you.”

 

This answer clearly didn’t placate Sherlock, as he promptly marched out of the room and slammed his bedroom door behind him.

 

John resigned himself to trying to recreate Angelo’s carbonara alone.

 

It seemed Sherlock had run out of great escape ideas at that point, as he then began to focus his attentions on his website and texting Lestrade for cases. Lestrade was not particularly inclined to pass anything over to Sherlock, partially because he was now a convicted criminal and mainly because of the embarrassment it would cause him if Sherlock could solve the case without leaving the flat, when he couldn’t after physically seeing all of the evidence in person.

 

So instead a parade of scorned lovers and conspiracy nuts began to appear in the living room each day. Sherlock solved all the cases instantly, of course, his eyes lighting up for only a second with the new information before he deemed them boring.

 

John didn’t mind, really. It distracted Sherlock from trying to escape again, and the private clients always paid so much better than those brought to them by Lestrade.

 

It was when Sherlock decided that drugs would be the easiest distraction from boredom when John really began to mind.

 

It was late one evening when John was returning from the clinic that he’d noticed something was wrong. On his way into the flat he was shouldered heavily by a man in a dark coat, who didn’t offer any apology. John wanted to ask why he’d been in their house, was he a client? But the man quickly disappeared into the night. Mrs Hudson had been waiting in the corridor for him, tear tracks down her face and a harrowing look in her eye.

 

“Tell him, John. Do something about it!” She begged John without context, her eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling above his head. She shook her head, “I recognised that man. He’s one of those…”

 

Mrs Hudson mouthed two words that settled a red haze over John’s head and he marched up the stairs, slamming the door to the flat open. Sherlock was lying flat out on the sofa, a needle poised to stick into his arm, a smug smile of satisfaction across his face.

 

“I didn’t know drug dealers were amenable to house calls,” John yelled, flicking the needle away from Sherlock’s arm. The spindly thing fell onto the carpet and rolled over a couple of times. Neither man made a move to pick it up.

 

Sherlock had not yet flinched. He seemed to find the whole thing funny, “He made an exception.”

 

“Drugs, Sherlock, really?” John continued to yell, exasperation evident in his tone. Also fear, because he now had this liability every time he left the flat, “You’re better than this.”

 

He rolled his eyes, “I am most definitely not better than this.”

 

John’s pulse thrummed loudly in his ears. Pulling on a pair of woolly gloves he found in his pocket (he’d prefer medical gloves but he didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone), he picked up the needle between the fingers of his left hand and snatched the packet off of the coffee table with his right. He read the name of Sherlock’s chosen opiate with a heavy heart.

 

“Morphine? Come on,” John sounded tired, imagining the mess he’d have returned to if he’d left the clinic just two minutes later than he did.

 

Sherlock finally showed some emotion, whether it be put on or not, he seemed desperate, “I need to dull my brain, John. If I can’t stimulate myself intellectually then I’d much rather not have to think at all. Oblivion is preferable to _this._ ”

 

“That’s not the Sherlock Holmes I know,” John tried and failed to inject some humour into his tone. He just sounded disappointed.

 

“I am not the Sherlock Holmes you knew,” Sherlock hissed, curling into a foetal position, “The Sherlock Holmes you knew was intelligent, celebrated. He solves crimes and defeated villains. Now the only thing I am trusted with is figuring out which mistress is stealing from the adulterous, rich arseholes who find me through my blog and don’t mind my criminal record.”

 

John sighed. He tried not to feel sorry for the child-like man curled up in front of him, but he couldn’t. Sherlock staked his whole worth on his ability to solve crimes and prove he’s clever, he could hardly do that from their living room.

 

Nonetheless he disposed of the needle and leftover morphine, spoiling the drugs by scraping the remains of last night’s curry over the top and pouring the remnants of his beer on top of that.

 

Sherlock didn’t seem put off by this as he still grasped his phone in his hand, staring at it as if it held all of the answers. John wasn’t stupid, though, he firmly took the phone and stowed it in his back pocket. He knew if he was to hide it anywhere in the flat Sherlock would find it within thirty seconds, but he knows he could just give it to Mycroft or Lestrade and Sherlock couldn’t even leave the flat to retrieve it.

 

“I could just use my laptop to contact my drug dealer,” Sherlock drawled, his face impassive. He barely moved when John naturally took his laptop as well, “Or yours.”

 

John frowned, retrieving his laptop as well. It seemed he was going to have to completely cut Sherlock off from the outside world if he was going to keep him off of the drugs.

 

“How am I supposed to get on with my work if you remove all ways of contacting potential clients?”

 

Sherlock had John stumped there. Allowing Sherlock to keep his laptop would, in his own words, lead to him contacting his drug dealer. However, without it he would become even more unbearable. The doctor and friend in John won out and he shook his head.

 

“I’m not giving you the chance to spoil yourself with drugs. You’ll just have to find a way to occupy yourself like a normal person,” John told him sensibly.

 

John made a quick trip out, ensuring Mrs Hudson was keeping an eye on Sherlock, depositing the two laptops and Sherlock’s phone with Anthea who pulled up in a car two streets away. When he returned to the flat Sherlock was sitting bolt upright in the same spot, his fingers steepled under his chin.

 

“Alright?” John asked out of courtesy, not expecting a reply. He settled into him armchair and flicked on the television, some rom-com he’d already seen flashing across the scene. He didn’t have the energy to change it.

 

Sherlock frowned, “Just imagining what my brother will be doing with the contents of my laptop and phone. You could have allowed me to delete my hard drive and history before you handed them over.”

 

“Been looking at dodgey things on the internet again?” John teased.

 

Sherlock was having none of that, “No, you have. Don’t use your guilty conscience to suggest things about me.”

 

John’s head fell into his hands in exasperation, “What? How… you couldn’t possibly-“

 

“The walk to Anthea’s preferred pick up point in this area takes approximately two minutes. It would have taken her approximately five minutes to get there after you texted her at 18.37, however you returned after fifteen minutes rather than nine. With the level of pornographic content on your laptop coupled with your comprehension of technology, it would have taken you those six extra minutes to realise you should delete your hard drive and figure out how to go about doing that.”

 

Sherlock bared his teeth. John sighed.

 

“You forget how much I borrow your laptop,” Sherlock reminded him and continued to glare at the television.

 

John did not have a response to this. He didn’t want to say that the reason he had deleted his internet history was because of the amount of time he spent on the internet googling Sherlock. Just to see what people were saying about him, and correcting them under his online pseudonym if they were particularly nasty or wrong. This was not necessarily inappropriate behaviour, not as much as the fact his porn preference had steadily increased to focus solely on pale, dark haired men, but he knew Sherlock would abhor the sentimentalism. And Mycroft would see past his sentimentalism to his true motives for defending his flatmate.

 

Sherlock was getting antsy again, “So what, then?”

 

“So what, what?” John repeated lamely.

 

“What do normal people do to relive boredom?”

 

The consulting detective used the word normal as if it was some kind of plague, sneaking up on him if he used less than one hundred percent of his cerebellum at all times.

 

“Uhh I don’t know,” John considered, “Watch telly? Read books, play board games…”

 

“Cluedo?” Sherlock perked up.

 

“Not after last time.”

 

John looked grim at the memory. The knife marks in the wall were barely hidden by his terrible attempt at DIY.

 

“I could beat you at any board game, it certainly wouldn’t relieve boredom.”

 

“But you’d be able to lord your intellectual prowess over me, you always enjoy that.”

 

“I could do that anyway.”

 

“That’s true. Telly it is, then.”

 

They both turned their attention to the terrible film playing on channel five. The protagonist and her love interest were ripping one another’s clothes off in their haste to make it to the bedroom, kissing ferociously in a manner of which John was sure it would actually hurt. He watched with mild interest, despite its improbability, as nothing of this sort of activity had come his way for quite some time.

 

“Sex,” Sherlock’s voice rose above the onscreen moans. His brows were furrowed as he stared at the screen, taking in every detail as if it was a case to be solved.

 

John half laughed, slightly uncomfortable at hearing that word from Sherlock’s lips, “Yes?”

 

“That’s something normal people do. To pass the time.”

 

“Well yes, they do,” John agreed, looking at Sherlock through narrowed eyes, “It’s not something you do though. Married to your work?”

 

Sherlock looked appalled, “I’m not suggesting some kind of romantic entanglement.”

 

John skipped a beat. He chuckled nervously, “What are you suggesting then?”

 

“An experiment,” Sherlock said simply, “You have identified a gap in my knowledge. Sex and other physical contact is something ‘I don’t do’, therefore I could deduce things wrong when it comes to crimes in relation to physical relationships.”

 

“You don’t go around committing mass murder, but you don’t struggle with catching people who do, though,” John joked, hoping deep down that this was some kind of odd dream. Because if not then it sounded like Sherlock was talking about… No, he would never suggest _that_ , would he?

 

“No, but I don’t struggle with understanding the motivations of those who do.”

 

Sherlock said this in such a calm and collected manner that it almost scared John a little. Sally Donovan had once said that Sherlock would one day succumb to murder and John pretended that little phrases like this didn’t fit in with that theory. It scared him more, though, that he didn’t know what was worse. Sherlock suggesting he understood murder or that he wanted to try sex.

 

“So what you’re saying is you don’t understand people’s motivations for sex?”

 

“Pleasure, relationships, financial gain… Yes, I know people’s motivations. What I don’t understand is why it is such a large factor in murder cases; why people would kill over such a trivial act.”

 

John stared at Sherlock, trying to look for some kind of joke. Or indication that he wasn’t implying what he thought (hoped?) he was. There didn’t seem to be one. “Why the sudden interest?” He inquired, imagining himself to be as nonchalant as he hoped he sounded.

 

Sherlock sighed, “It’s not a pressing issue. But since I have no cases to occupy my time I will have to expand my knowledge in some way, using what can be found within the flat. I can’t have my brain rotting, John.”

 

“And don’t you think you should ask the thing found within the flat if they consent to this… Experiment?”

 

“Well I haven’t broached the subject with Mrs Hudson yet but I imagine she’ll be happy to comply.”

 

John nearly choked. Luckily Sherlock immediately began shaking with laughter and John joined in, happy to have the tension in the flat eradicated for a moment. John hadn’t heard Sherlock laugh like this ever since he’d been trapped by that plastic cuff and it was nice to feel as though the next two years wouldn’t be so tense and uncomfortable. However, after a moment of laughter John realised what Sherlock really meant, if Mrs Hudson wasn’t going to be the subject of his experiment…

 

“I am not having you experiment on me,” John said firmly, but still with humour as he wiped the laughter-tears out of his eyes.

 

Sherlock looked forlorn, “Why not? You’ve been my subject before.”

 

“Unwillingly,” John reminded him, “I’m not letting you test out your absurd theories about murder like… like that.”

 

“Problem?” He responded, the furrow in his brow indicating he really didn’t see what was wrong. This was a new level of social unawareness; just casually suggesting he and John should start having sex for an ‘experiment’. “You’ve engaged in many non-serious relationships solely based on sexual acts before.”

 

“Not with, with…” John could feel himself turning red and flustered, damn this man, “Those women weren’t my best friend.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in realisation and then narrowed in thought, “interesting. So you find an emotional connection reduces your ability to have casual sex.”

 

“It.. complicates things,” John nodded.

 

Sometimes John thought that Sherlock could read his mind, in these moments when he observed him so closely and read the tiniest clues so easily. He hoped, so much, that he wouldn’t be able to tell what he was thinking right now. Because he was imagining saying yes, allowing Sherlock to experiment on him with kisses and sex and intimacy John couldn’t have ever dreamed of.

 

He blamed it on the long dry spell he’d been suffering from, after Sherlock ran off his last girlfriend and spending so much time alone with his flatmate recently. Usually he’d be able to get out, find some way to distract himself from these urges he tried to get rid of, but there wasn’t much to distract him anymore.

 

Sherlock’s attention was back on the television again, where the couple were now cuddling and flirting in bed post-coitus. He wasn’t really watching it though, John could see how Sherlock’s eyes were still occasionally darting over to his own face and narrowing. He was up to something that was for sure. But John was much too tired to bother about that now and he decided to make himself a drink.

 

When he reached into the cupboard, by default he took out two mugs and poured out two mugs of tea. This was standard, an almost autopilot response to being in the kitchen at this point, but when he placed the mugs onto the coffee table, a warm pressure on his arm stopped him in his tracks.

 

Sherlock was squeezing his arm, an unnatural smile on his face. John frowned.

 

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said, his voice as sincere as John had ever heard it.

 

John pulled his hard out of Sherlock’s grasp with a jerk, baffled by this sudden display of gratitude for something he did multiple times a day, “Uh, it’s fine.”

 

This became a regular thing over the next few days. Sherlock was generally nicer to John, thanking him for getting the groceries or ordering their takeaways. He also found subtle ways to touch John, his hands ghosting over John’s back as he passed by in the hallway, patting him on the shoulder when greeting him in the morning. John was suspicious, of course; he knew this had something to do with their topic of conversation the other night, but found no way to complain about the series of events.

 

In fact, John began to forget that this was likely an experiment at all, enjoying the shift in kindness and touch he received from Sherlock. This was something he could get used to.

 

Things took a turn one afternoon when John was reading the newspaper on the sofa. Sherlock emerged from his room, his hair messy from sleep, and promptly flung himself onto the other end of the sofa. He moved this way and that way, like a dog finding that perfect spot, before nestling into John’s side and resting his head against his side.

 

John raised his arms in surprise, looking down at the curly mop of dark hair covering his jumper. He laughed, “Comfortable?”

 

The head moved in a possible nodding motion.

 

This then became their regular arrangement; whenever John sat on the sofa Sherlock would cuddle up to his side, edging closer and closer until the only comfortable way John could sit was with his arm around his flatmate. Again, John found himself completely okay with this, if not a little confused at why Sherlock was suddenly so touchy feely. Not that he complained too much, in fact he began sitting on the sofa more often to ensure this would be what happened.

 

They began talking more, as well. They had to because neither had phones or laptops to get distracted by and there was only so much Jeremy Kyle they could watch before they went around the loop. Sherlock would ask John about what he’d done with his day (John assumed it was because he never did anything, anymore) and they’d discuss at length where he’d been and who he’d met.

 

Sherlock claimed he was practicing his powers of deduction when he wasn’t present for events, but John just found the extra attention flattering.

 

The ease and familiarity of this routine flew out of the window one evening, about three months from the start of Sherlock’s house-arrest. John came home late from the clinic, tired and grouchy from the rush of flu season and how much he missed running around on cases. He was looking forward to a quiet night in with Sherlock and considering the pros and cons of cooking vs takeaway as he pushed open the door to 221B, when a person flew at him the moment he stepped inside.

 

It was Sherlock, and Sherlock was kissing him.

 

The taller man had grabbed him by the shoulders and angled his head up so he could press his lips to his, almost as easily as if they did this everyday. Which they most certainly did not. John was shocked rigid and barely responded for a few moments, allowing Sherlock’s insistent tongue to lap at his lips. His brain switched off, however, as Sherlock’s hands slid into his hair and John’s eyes fell closed at the feeling of it. He then began kissing Sherlock back with all of the passion and emotion he could, smiling slightly against his lips.

 

Sherlock stopped proceedings much earlier than John would’ve liked, stepping back coolly and regarding John with a keen eye.

 

John’s eyes remained closed, his brain restarting and trying hard to convince himself this was a dream. A lovely, crazy, impossible dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

 

When he opened his eyes again he stared at Sherlock blearily, his brain slowly ticking over with ideas over what the fuck just happened. He recalled Sherlock’s recent behavioural changes, their conversation a few weeks ago, Sherlock’s persistence that he needed something to occupy himself. And then he took in Sherlock’s expression; the smug smile and wide eyed stare of the man when he’d put together a telling clue of a particularly difficult case. Not the happy, inexperienced expression John had imagined he’d have after their first kiss. And John lost it.

 

“What was that?” He asked, his voice unnaturally loud and croaky, “You’re bloody experimenting on me, aren’t you? After I specifically told you not to!”

 

Sherlock didn’t respond, no trace of guilt crossing his features. He still looked as though he was processing data.

 

“You can’t… You can’t just go around kissing people for your bloody experiments and...” John’s voice broke embarrassingly on the word kissing, “And just messing with their feelings like that. It’s not fair. It’s just not.”

 

Sherlock still didn’t respond immediately, staring at a spot above John’s head, “You wouldn’t entertain the possibility of a physical relationship with me a mere month ago, but after I was nicer to you and increased our physical touching daily, you were more than happy to kiss me just now.”

 

John sighed. Of course all of this wasn’t real, of course, “Yes. God forbid when the person a guy fancies starts being nice and flirting with them that he’d kiss them back,” he almost laughed at Sherlock’s shocked face, he finally got a reaction out of the man, “Oh come on. You had to have figured that out from what just happened.”

 

Obviously he hadn’t. Sherlock’s mouth had fallen open ever so slightly and his eyes widened.

 

“Wow, I’ve actually shocked you,” John intended his words to be incredulous, but they just came out extremely self conscious. The flush that had sprung up during the kiss was now a burning red blush, the searing realisation of what he’d just admitted thumping in his chest.

 

Sherlock was backtracking now, his pale face somehow blanching further, “I… I didn’t realise. I was just… just…”

 

No this was definitely not how John had imagined this would go. In long stretches of night sleep wouldn’t take him, John imagined them running in on a high from a case. They’d laugh, joke about their brilliance, before their eyes met and they couldn’t help but kiss. It was firm but passionate and it certainly didn’t end with embarrassment and shame.

 

Even now John had hoped that Sherlock’s absurd experiment was just his way of showing his feelings, but even that was becoming unlikely.

 

“Like I said,” John’s words were dead, emotionless. He stared unflinching at Sherlock’s wide eyed stare, “Don’t mess with people’s feelings.”

 

They skirted around one another for the long week afterward. John would find excuses to stay out of the flat for long evenings in the pub with Lestrade, Stamford or anyone who could keep him out of 221B. It barely mattered anyway, Sherlock would stay locked in his bedroom at all hours, not even making a sound. John and Sherlock lived in the same flat but they didn’t share airspace for nine days before John returned early from the clinic, to find Sherlock in the living room with Lestrade.

 

John panicked upon seeing Sherlock, instantly turning and heading for the stairs to the second floor but Lestrade called out.

 

“John!” The detective inspector’s voice was light, but firm, “We might need your help on this.”

 

John slowly trudged into the room, perching on the end of the sofa ready to leave at the slightest moment. He could feel Sherlock’s intense gaze on the top of his head, but his eyes remained fixed on the pamphlet he’d been handed out on Baker Street. _“Bring our troops home”,_ yeah maybe don’t else they’ll find a mad flatmate and accidentally fall in love with them.

 

Sherlock was the first to speak, his voice low and obviously excited, “John and I have been practicing deduction techniques. I am almost 80% accurate on deducing witness’ and scenes I have not even been present at.”

 

Oh great that wasn’t even a ruse. Sherlock really was trying to work up to solving crimes again. John sighed.

 

“Well that’s better than nothing,” Lestrade’s voice was full of humour and relief. John recalled him saying the other night that his crime solving rate had dropped significantly in the past three months, his self preservation had obviously now taken over his pride, “This is a difficult one.”

 

Sherlock and Lestrade began discussing the details of a particularly grisly triple murder, where the mobile phones of each victim had been completely snapped in two. They didn’t ask for John’s input nor did he offer it; he realised quickly that he was just going to be the vessel for Sherlock’s deductions. Just pointing out what he sees over the phone and Sherlock will deduce the killer from his armchair. Lovely.

 

Lestrade handed Sherlock and John back their phones, with a pointed look in Sherlock’s direction. He must have contacted Mycroft for these, or likely Sherlock’s older brother had extracted all usable information from the devices and handed them over to Lestrade when he got bored. Sherlock instantly became enamoured with his phone, feverishly typing as Lestrade continued to feed him details of the case.

 

He wondered why he even had to be present for this at all, until Lestrade suddenly gestured to him and stepped outside the flat. John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock who looked just as confused, before following Greg out of the room.

 

Greg was waiting out by the stairs, a hopeful look in his eye, “Hopefully this will get the two of you out of your moping.”

 

John tried not to flinch, “What are you talking about?”

 

“You said the other night that you and Sherlock had clashed over something and weren’t talking. I needed help with a case and thought this could get the two of you back together again,” Lestrade explained, grinning.

 

“Together?” John tried not to look guilty. Had Sherlock told Greg something?

 

“Oh you know, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. The inseparable pair,” Lestrade laughed, “I think even Anderson misses the pair of you. Although I reckon Sherlock could piss him off even over the phone.”

 

“That’s true,” John found himself agreeing and smiling, relief evident in his tone. Lestrade obviously didn’t know anything.

 

Lestrade nodded, satisfied. “Shall we go? We found another one an hour ago.”

 

John found it very strange attending a crime scene without Sherlock. He’d done it before, of course, when Sherlock couldn’t find the motivation to get dressed to visit a crime scene. But this felt different, there was a widening gap between the two of them and this seemed to exacerbate it.

 

As soon as he laid eyes on the body he rang Sherlock, needing the anchoring force of his low voice no matter how pissed he was with him. Sherlock picked up after the second ring.

 

“What is it?”

 

“She’s been strangled, like the other victims.”

 

“Manually?”

 

“Ligature strangulation. There was definitely a struggle as well.”

 

“Have forensics found anything?”

 

“It’s Anderson. He’s demanded to speak to you himself.”

 

Both of their voices were controlled, professional. If Sherlock was still thinking about what had happened a week previous he showed no signs of it. John wasn’t surprised his confession had been swept aside by the first murder that came along, just perhaps a little disappointed.

 

They went through the case quickly and easily. John followed Lestrade and filled in Sherlock on each victim’s crime scene and body, with Sherlock’s questions becoming more specific with each body they examined. Eventually Sherlock realised that the phones had been snapped to cover that the batteries had also been taken. He then deduced that the phone batteries had been taken by a rogue phone engineer who had mistakenly given out faulty batteries on a certain batch of this phone model, and had killed the victims to avoid a massive lawsuit.

 

It was a far stretch, by all means, but Lestrade and John uncovered the engineer cowering in the corner of a phone shop close to all four victim’s homes, with the phone batteries stashed in a locked drawer.

 

When John returned to Baker Street he was on such a case-high he almost forgot everything that had gone on recently. It wasn’t the same without Sherlock by his side, however, and maybe that’s why he did it.

 

Sherlock was waiting, fully dressed in a sharp suit and purple shirt, expectantly in the middle of the living room. John saw him and made the decision that if doing it once hadn’t ruined their friendship, then doing it a second time wouldn’t do too much harm either.

 

And kissed him.

 

And although John was leading and he fully expected Sherlock to push away or stay completely still, the taller man reciprocated. You wouldn’t think he was inexperienced from the way he kissed John, in such away that left him completely breathless.

 

They fell apart naturally this time, John holding on tightly to Sherlock’s lapels and Sherlock dipping his head to rest his forehead against John’s.

 

John chuckled breathlessly, “That is why I didn’t want you to kiss me for an experiment.”

 

“That… that…” Sherlock didn’t open his eyes, the furrow of his brow indicated he was thinking hard.

 

“I’d imagined coming home from a case, happy, hears beating fast. And kissing you just like that. Of course you’d actually been out on the case with me, but you can’t get everything you want...”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, “I liked that. That… was enjoyable.”

 

“Good. I thought so too,” John smiled. The warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest was foreign.

 

Sherlock was still thinking hard, “I liked… touching you as well. It wasn’t an experiment, not about murder anyway. I had all these, these feelings towards you and I didn’t know what to do about them. I couldn’t be sure how you felt so I pretended it was about solving more cases.”

 

“Not quite a sociopath then,” John grinned, taking the moment to kiss Sherlock lightly just because he could, “A strange way to go about asking someone out, but there you go.”

 

Sherlock frowned, “Well we couldn’t exactly go out, could we?”

 

“No, I guess we can’t,” John sighed, nudging Sherlock’s plastic ankle cuff with the toe of his shoe.

 

Sherlock and John didn’t get to go on their first proper date for another three months, when Mycroft got bored of John badgering him about the whole ordeal and allowed Sherlock to end his house arrest. The pair went to Angelos, of course, where they’d been on their unofficial first date.

 

Not to say they didn’t find ways to occupy themselves in those three months. Lestrade began passing more cases to Sherlock through John and they solved them with ease, the pair being more in sync than ever now their entire relationship had shifted.

 

And Sherlock had a lot more studies in touch, too.

 


End file.
